


The Rule of Three

by imagined_melody



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:59:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_melody/pseuds/imagined_melody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it seems that Petyr, Varys, and Oberyn make for three very strange bedfellows, and it is proved that perhaps the arrangement is not so terribly odd after all. (Background events diverge from canon after Petyr leaves for the Eyrie.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Petyr and Varys

**Author's Note:**

> While not a requirement, it might be helpful to read my fic [Uncharted Territory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/864749) before this one, as it establishes the type of relationship I imagine Petyr and Varys having, and will clarify some of the ways they speak and act around each other. For the purposes of this story's canon, the two of them have an off-and-on romantic and sexual arrangement; when I started watching season 4, however, I couldn't resist playing around with how Oberyn might be brought into that dynamic. :)
> 
> Speaking of canon, I started writing this around the episode where Petyr and Sansa escape to the Eyrie. I liked setting the story there and so I decided to abandon canon compliance and not change any of what I'd written to conform with future events. Thus, in this fic Petyr has returned to King's Landing with no one the wiser about his involvement in Joffrey's assassination. And, of course, Oberyn is still alive and kicking. 
> 
> I will add tags and maybe bump the rating up to explicit in later chapters, depending on how things pan out when I actually start writing the sex. ;)

If Varys was being entirely honest—and it was rarely in his best interest to do that—one of the first things that occurred to him upon meeting Oberyn Martell was how much Lord Baelish would like him.

Littlefinger’s departure to the Eyrie had left Varys’ days rather quiet. Not in the sense of a lull in court matters—quite the opposite; there had been more turmoil in King’s Landing since Baelish left than in the several months he had lately been present—but in the lack of someone with whom to banter and comment and even conspire, on occasion. Varys was left only to listen to the muted whisperings of the nobles and assorted citizens who brought him news (whether they realized they were doing it or not). 

Oberyn had been a different matter entirely. He was sly, the nickname of Viper apt in much the same way Varys’ alias of “Spider” accurately described him. There was something in the way he walked, Varys thought: a swagger that could easily be a slither if such a thing were required. And there was no doubt from the fire in his blood that if he struck, his fangs would sting. A wronged Martell, after all, had as much venom as any serpent.

Petyr would likely enjoy the sensuousness of him, the way Oberyn seemed to relish his dalliances in the brothel with utter sincerity. He did not speak of his partners, male or female, as prizes or objects to be used and paid for and discarded. And while the prince seemed incredulous at Varys’ admission that even before he was cut he had never felt a particular sense of sexual desire— occasional urges, perhaps, but nothing as concrete as what others could claim—he did not seem intolerant of the prospect. 

He would, perhaps, be a worthy partner in bed. Varys wondered what Baelish would think of the possibility.

Petyr seemed edgy when he returned from his travels, tense in a way that was nearly invisible to others, but which Varys—through years of close inspection—had learned to detect. Varys suspected his time with the Lady Arryn had been trying on the man, although he was not fool enough to believe he was terribly upset by Lysa’s death. That had not been a match of any sort of affection, at least on Lord Baelish’s part. The appearance he gave of a grieving husband was false, then; that much was clear to Varys—but the distress underneath, it seemed, was genuine. Varys waited in his chambers until evening fell, and was unsurprised when Petyr retired to Varys’ rooms rather than his own. 

“I’m sure by now you have noticed the presence of Oberyn Martell in our courts,” Varys said from his desk, to the man who sat perched on his bed.

Petyr’s face spread into a slow grin, a mischievous expression which immediately confirmed Varys’ suspicions. “Indeed,” he replied. “I see he has made himself quite comfortable at the pleasure houses. He has a rather attractive paramour as well.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Varys said. “I thought you might find him…interesting.”

“In what way?” Petyr ventured. The tone of his voice suggested he had caught on to Varys’ train of thought, at least in part. Varys did nothing but raise an eyebrow, knowing Petyr would take his meaning; sure enough, the other man grinned further. “Ah. You like him as well.”

Varys made an acquiescent sound and settled back into a relaxed posture. “He is sharp,” he admitted, hands folded in his lap. “We are surrounded by such idiocy at all times. It is refreshing to have someone in court who knows how to look beyond what is before him.”

“Sharp in other matters as well, you think?” Petyr did not have to clarify they were talking about sex and intimacy; Varys had brought it up after all, however subtly, and though they were speaking in a sort of code, it was one they both understood.

Varys gave him a wry smile. “Adventurous, certainly, I should guess,” he responded, and Petyr gave a quiet scoff in return. “He understands desire very well. You two have that in common; I imagine you would enjoy that in him. He is less familiar with my own realities, but he seems… _willing_ to learn,” he finished carefully.

“Or at least to be present for a demonstration,” Petyr smirked.

Varys snorted lightly. “Quite so.” He did not say one of the many things he was actually thinking, which was that upon seeing Lord Baelish again, he suspected it would do the man good to experience pleasure at the hands of both a trusted friend and another man who was whole in body. Perhaps that would begin to chase away whatever demons lurked at Petyr after the events of his recent excursion. Littlefinger could be so dreadfully unpredictable when threatened, or when a rejection or dangerous turn of events was bothering him—and his unpredictability often ended in recklessness or retribution. After the dramas in court of late, Varys was keen to keep both of those at a minimum.

(It was not entirely cold logic or a desire to placate Petyr that prompted such a plan, however. Varys was not nearly as heartless as that. There was enjoyment to be had for both of them, after all, and given his physical disadvantage in these matters, Varys would not suggest such a thing if he did not feel predisposed toward it. It seemed this was an arrangement from which everyone could benefit.)

He stood up, moving to the window, and looked out into the dark night over an uneasy kingdom. It did not take a host of spies to realize the tension that pervaded the realm lately; the signs of it were everywhere, like a sinister fog that grows until it makes everything too difficult to see. Somewhere in the lower streets, a guardsman hummed “The Rains of Castamere” idly, and Varys rolled his eyes in distaste. “I despise that horrid song,” he murmured. There was a pause, a change in the air suddenly noticed, and Varys sensed that Petyr had risen from the bed and come to stand behind him. In a voice slightly louder, but still hushed, he continued, “But I imagine you rather like it.”

The smirk on Littlefinger’s face, when Varys turned to look, was familiar and equal to Varys’ own. “I am no Lannister. It is not the song of my house,” he pointed out as he stepped closer toward the spymaster—within arm’s length, now.

“No, but it is a song of revenge,” Varys replied silkily. “You love those.”

“Not of revenge,” Baelish corrected him, “of power. Justice, perhaps. Nothing quite so unwise as revenge.”

“Ah yes, forgive me. I can never quite tell the difference,” was Varys’ airy reply. They were standing together now, a bit further back from the window but still close enough to see out of it without themselves being easily seen. Varys looked at Petyr sidelong. “How was the Eyrie, and your lovely Lysa Arryn? I trust all is in order there? All the little sparrows, safe within their new nests?”

His lack of knowledge was rather feigned, as was so often true between them. Petyr did not quite look at Varys. His expression suggested he was not especially surprised at the other man’s knowledge of his motives. “Some migrations are necessary, to shelter a winter bird from the storm.”

“Hmmm. But might that sort of creature perhaps fare better than most, in such a cold climate?”

“When it is full grown, perhaps. Not when it is still but a fledgling.”

Varys hummed again, noncommittally, which Petyr took to mean he agreed—or at least would allow the matter to drop. This tacit acceptance was to be expected. If Varys had truly been against his actions, they would have been thwarted long ago. “And how did you find your _arrangement_ with Lady Arryn, temporary though it proved to be? Suitable, I trust?”

Petyr scoffed. “Rather more hastily undertaken than expected, I’m afraid. And noisily fulfilled, too. You should have heard how she howled when I took her to bed.”

“I am rather glad to have heard no such thing,” Varys said with a wrinkled brow, as though the very idea were distasteful to him. A pause fell; the guardsman’s idle song had stopped, and the clatter of a horse being led through the narrow street below was the only sound breaking the silence. After a moment Varys carefully added, “It seems to me the union was as hastily ended as begun.”

“A terrible accident, of course,” Baelish said, and he was almost convincing. Naturally, Varys knew better. He suspected Petyr was aware of that too; the other man changed the subject then, saying, “But of all the rumors you hear, Varys, I can hardly believe you are most interested in the particulars of my marriage.”

In fact, Varys was markedly interested in them—or rather, what the ramifications of them might be. But he ceded the point. “That’s as may be,” he said with a shrug. “Now tell me, Lord Baelish. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Baelish’s lips upturned in a sly smile, recognizing the question as the invitation it was. His fingers gently played at the edges of Varys’ robes, just tracing over them—making no effort to muss or remove anything. “The road is rather dull,” he murmured as he stepped closer. “One is hungry for stimulation after such a tedious experience.”

Varys very nearly rolled his eyes at the comment. “It seems to me that rest is a more common desire after one has traveled a long way.”

“Mmm,” Petyr said noncommittally. “The companionship of another is rest, of a sort.”

“Not with the intentions you are surely harboring,” Varys quipped, but he stepped closer to the bed, his body language not a denial by any means.

Petyr tsked quietly. “Why Varys, you mistake me entirely,” he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, fond. “What I require need not be exertive in the slightest. I am sure we can find an activity that is suitable for us both.”

When Petyr kissed him, a few moments later, the pressure of his lips on Varys’ was unexpectedly needy. Varys made a small surprised sound into his partner’s mouth, but welcomed the gesture, letting his hands do the work of keeping Lord Baelish close while he returned the affection in kind. Petyr’s uneasiness had been apparent to him before, in the way that even the slightest of the man’s tells spoke volumes to Varys—but there was something more private disclosed in this, a _vulnerability_ that Varys was not sure Petyr meant to reveal. Varys wondered whether it was the suspicious circumstances of Lysa Arryn’s death that were shaking the man so terribly, or whether there was something else, perhaps something with the Lady Sansa. He could not quite put the pieces together, yet.

But there were more important matters at hand than sorting out the mystery of Petyr’s machinations. That was a concern for another time. Now, Varys bore Petyr down onto the bed, parting the man’s robes and settling in for a slow and thorough exploration. It was distraction Lord Baelish needed, clearly, and that was something he could gladly provide.


	2. Part Two: Petyr and Oberyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Naturally, Petyr did some research of his own before agreeing to welcome Oberyn into their bed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 2 of 3 in this fic- and now the difficult part begins! I'm honestly not sure how I want to approach the sexy part of this fic. If you have any particular angles or moments you'd like to see, now is a good time to suggest them. :) It will not be posted nearly as quickly as the other two, but I'll try and get it written and updated as soon as I can!

Naturally, Petyr did some research of his own before agreeing to welcome Oberyn into their bed.

Varys might have ears everywhere in the kingdom, but Petyr had watchful eyes of his own, and the brothel provided his main source. How convenient, then, that Oberyn was so comfortably stationed there. He sought out the opinion of one of his male employees, a sweet-faced blond boy of whom the prince seemed especially fond. The man’s report was favorable: Oberyn was, by all accounts, an honorable and gentle (unless a lack of gentleness was preferred) and apparently rather indiscriminate lover, having no preference between the male and female sexes. (“If there were a variety other than simply man and woman, I am sure Prince Oberyn would desire them just as well,” his source quipped with a crooked grin.) So he appreciated all manner of partners, then; that was promising. His behavior in matters of intimacy was reported to be responsive and, as Varys had predicted, adventurous without being aberrant. All these qualities were quite satisfactory to Petyr’s tastes, as he knew they were to Varys’.

The only thing that remained, then, was to discern Oberyn’s own feelings on the matter. He had to admit that Varys had been right on one count: Petyr had been intrigued by the handsome nobleman from the moment he’d laid eyes on him. He found Prince Oberyn in his room at the pleasure house, alone for the moment, a glass of wine in his hand and his feet propped up as he pored over some official-looking text. Petyr had not even announced his presence when Oberyn looked up. “Ah, you must be Lord Baelish,” he said, and though he was suitably subtle about it, Petyr did not miss the way Oberyn briefly looked him up and down. “I have heard much about you, my lord.”

Petyr stepped in the room. “Please, there is no need for one of your stature to address me as ‘lord.’”

“A mere formality, you understand,” Oberyn replied, spreading his hands in welcome. “Please, do sit.” When Petyr had done so, he asked, “What can I do for you, Lord Baelish?”

Petyr did not comment on the continued use of his title by one who, for all official purposes, outranked him by a fair stretch. “I was merely curious about the honored guest the establishment was hosting in my absence,” he remarked casually. “I have heard much about you as well.”

“I should hope all of the gossip is good, but I suspect that depends on who you have spoken to,” Oberyn said with a small, knowing grin. “You are a companion of Lord Varys, are you not? A very interesting man indeed.”

Fleetingly, Petyr wondered how much Oberyn had guessed about the nature of his and Varys’ relationship. The comment could be innocent, certainly, but the haste with which he introduced it was telling. Petyr decided to give him the leverage. “Companions, of a sort,” he acknowledged, and then added, “Of many sorts, actually.”

Oberyn was looking at him with undisguised interest, and Petyr knew for certain now that he had put the pieces together. “How very remarkable,” he mused, not breaking his intense gaze. “I imagine your interactions must be rather unusual, given the circumstances.”

“On the contrary, they are quite ordinary in nature,” Petyr corrected, leaning back in his seat. “Your predispositions, I would wager, are the more unique.”

There was a mischievous light in Oberyn’s eyes—a fire that suggested amusement, but also a quick reactivity should the conversation change and his behaviors come under attack. “Which predispositions?” he inquired. “My desire for all sexes equally? My enjoyment of more than one partner, if the situation appeals and all are willing? Such things are practiced by a good many people.” He was still fixing Petyr with a steady gaze, calculating all the factors of him, but not offensively. “As one so familiar with the patronage of pleasure houses, I am sure you know much about all sorts of preferences.”

It was time, Petyr thought, for them to cease talking around the subject—enjoyable though their banter might be. “Much more, I fear, than I wish to know,” he joked, and received a smile in return. “Admittedly, my current relations are not entirely _exclusive_ either.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I did know you were recently married, of course. But even between yourself and Varys…” He trailed off, leaving Petyr to fill in the blanks.

Petyr gave a gentle shrug. “Marriage is little more than a contract, to my mind,” he replied. “As for Varys and I, what we have is by no means constant. It is, at any moment, whatever it needs to be.” He smiled, almost coyly. “And at this moment it is…open to new possibilities.”

Oberyn studied him for a few long moments. “Tell me,” he said then, “have you any interest in the female sex at all? Or are those partnerships merely… _arrangements_ for you?”

Petyr thought back to Lysa, to Sansa, to his infatuation with Catelyn. “Arrangements, to be sure, but not entirely without attraction,” he admitted. “But for me they are merely distractions, much of the time.”

“And other partners are not?” Oberyn raised an eyebrow.

“Not in the same manner,” Petyr allowed. He did not know how to explain the uniqueness of his relations with Varys, the way in which it was not a distraction at all—quite the opposite, in fact. He and Varys had always used their banter as a means of strategy, to discern the truth of a situation or to warn the other where his weak spots were. The addition of a physical component to their dynamic had changed it surprisingly little. There was an unspoken agreement between them, too, that the bedroom was in many ways safe territory for them. Outside of it, they often counteracted one another; neither was safe from anyone in the wider world, not even each other. But within the confines of those private walls, they were protected. 

He said none of this, but Oberyn’s expression seemed to say that he knew. At any rate, something in Petyr’s reaction caused a change in him. “Open though your relations are, I assume you approach me with his…permission?” he asked, hesitating on the word.

“With his consent,” Petyr said, supplying the better term for what Varys had, indeed, given. 

“And what would such an arrangement between us entail?” 

“What you will,” Petyr answered. “Varys, I daresay, would not wish to be as widely _involved_ , shall we say, as I would. He is willing, but his history is complicated. He has reservations about inviting unknown quantities to be intimate with him.”

“Yes, I imagine his experience must be very unusual indeed,” Oberyn mused. “So you and I, then, but also you and him. With minimal involvement on my part for the latter.”

“That sounds suitable,” Petyr said. 

Oberyn smiled now, flirtatiously, and the brusque moment of negotiation vanished. “I must say, I did not expect such an opportunity when I arrived at King’s Landing.”

Petyr smirked. “You thought you would simply make good use of our kept boys?”

“Well, with such fine specimens, it would be greedy to seek more,” he replied with somewhat false modesty. “But I too have my fair share already with Ellaria. So any other partners are an embarrassment of riches.”

“But one which you are more than willing to accept,” Petyr pointed out.

Oberyn’s smile was slow, and Petyr saw a little of the snake in him. “I am afraid I am terribly susceptible to temptation,” he deadpanned. “Now, Lord Baelish. When might I have the pleasure of joining you and Lord Varys in your chambers?”

Petyr considered how soon might be appropriate, and responded, “Tomorrow night should suit, I think. At sunset?” The very idea was sending anticipation thrumming through his bones.

Oberyn made a small nod, that same sliver of a smile on his face. “So be it.” It was a formal reply, and yet Petyr felt the interest radiating off of Oberyn as well. He could sense the man already turning the prospect over in his head, and knew he did not imagine Oberyn’s piercing gaze on his back as he turned and walked from the room.

If this conversation alone was any indication, the following night would prove to be very interesting indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to chat more about fic and fandom and other things, you can find me at imaginedmelody.tumblr.com (and updates for this and other stories- including snippets of things not yet finished or posted- on my "imaginedmelody writes" tag on tumblr).


End file.
